On the Stroke of Midnight
by johnsarmylady
Summary: It's Halloween, and Sherlock and John get some unexpected news. From there it's a race against time! Welcome...to HALLOWEEN! Warning: please note the tags...
1. Life after Life

**Welcome to this year's Halloween offering. Like last year it was originally intended to be a short one-shot, but there was more story to be told.  
>The chapters are short, and will be posted one per night from now until Halloween.<br>Thanks to MapleleafCameo for once more checking this out and finding all my lost commas (amongst other things).  
>Disclaimer: Don't own, don't profit...don't think that's fair!<strong>

Despite the seriousness of the crime the chase was exhilarating, and once more John was put in mind of their very first case together.

"Hurry John, we'll lose him!"

"Yeah, you said that last time too." John huffed under his breath as he sprinted up the metal staircase and on to the roof.

Sherlock hadn't waited; he was already on the next roof, near the edge and peering down as he ran.

"Oi, be careful."

"I can't see him John, he must have...no! There he is!"

Looking around him Sherlock weighed up the possibility of jumping to the next building, and having made up his mind he started to take a run.

"No you don't." John grabbed his arm. "You'll never make it – neither will I."

"John." The younger man pulled out of his grasp. "We have to, otherwise he'll get away."

"Greg can pick him up."

Rolling his eyes Sherlock peered once more over the edge of the roof.

"Look, he's there! He thinks he's lost us. Just one more roof John, then we'll have him." He paced back to take a last run and jump.

And John knew, as he always had known, that he would follow this idiotic genius no matter what.

xXx

Some things never change, and as the detective and his blogger fell through the front door and up the stairs to their flat their giggles echoed around them.

Still running on adrenaline John made tea while Sherlock sent a text to Lestrade demanding that the next job be more than just a four, and they settled down with their drinks still laughing about the look of shock on the perpetrator's face.

Despite the shortening days and the wet, blustery weather, the two flatmates eschewed their usual blaze in the grate; their minds were too occupied – Sherlock explaining the intricacies of the last case that had bypassed his friend's notice, and John making mental notes to add to his blog.

Neither could say how long they sat talking, but the light was almost gone and the streetlamps were starting to cast an eerie glow over the room when the doorbell rang. Sherlock's head came up and he listened intently.

"Maximum pressure, just under the half second..." he said, his voice almost a whisper in the still room.

The two men looked at each other and grinned.

"Client!"

They listened intently to the sound of murmured introductions, and then the tread of feet on the stairs – Mrs Hudson, two others.

Sherlock rubbed his hands together and sat back.

Moments later Mrs Hudson opened the door and switched the lights on, ushering a young couple into the living room.

The consulting detective looked up at them, his most attentive expression plastered onto his face.

xXx

Mrs Hudson looked around the empty room, her eyes sad but resigned to the knowledge that she couldn't afford to let the room lay unoccupied any longer.

"It's been empty for a year you say?" the newly wed young lady looked around, seeing nothing but emptiness and old furniture and dust. "Why have you waited so long to rent it out again?"

"Shhh Jen, I don't think that really matters."

He was a nice young man, Mrs Hudson thought, thoughtful in the same way that her John had been.

"It took me a while to arrange for their belongings to be removed, and that nice Mr Holmes, Sherlock's brother, had it redecorated for me."

"Yes, it takes time Mrs Hudson, I'm sure." Turning to his wife the young man said "Well my love? What do you think?"

"Holmes? Wasn't he that detective?"

Gesturing for the couple to take a seat on the couch Martha Hudson lowered herself into John's chair, her back ramrod straight and her voice steady as she explained.

"A year ago today, Sherlock and John were chasing a man who had kidnapped and murdered the son of an American newspaper magnate." She looked down at her hands and sighed. "He was on a motorbike, they were cutting across the rooftops – that last roof, they jumped, landed safely, but then the supporting wall gave way, and they fell seventy feet, along with the wall and half of the roof."

She looked up again and a reminiscent smile crossed her lips.

"Their last case. After everything that had happened they finally went together, both killed outright." She paused, and her smile widened. "And despite everything, they still got their man!"


	2. What Next

It was the strangest of realisations as they sat there (though John had moved double quick when he realised that Mrs Hudson was about to sit on him) and listened to the tale of their own demise.

They looked at each other; their twin expressions of horror said it all. A year? But how?

The rest of the conversation passed over John as if he had switched off his hearing, but when the young couple left and Mrs Hudson, after a brief nostalgic look around turned out the lights, Sherlock rose and stood next to John.

"What was that?" John turned to look at his friend.

"Logic tells me that we couldn't possibly have heard that conversation, but…"

John gave him a hard look. "But?"

A delicate shudder ran through the younger man's frame, and he chewed at his lower lip.

"Need more data."

Grabbing his Belstaff and scarf Sherlock dressed himself on the move, sweeping out of the flat and just expecting John to follow him. And with a longsuffering sigh, John did just that.

"Where do you intend to start?"

Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath Sherlock paused, uncharacteristically uncertain.

"I don't know – it's not like we can go and ask Mycroft or Lestrade, can we?"

John grinned at the thought, then his eyes widened.

"Of course! The cemetery - your brother still owned the plot where you were 'buried' the last time, what's the betting he used the same plot?"

"Oh that would be so like Mycroft…."

"Come on then, what are you waiting for?"

John watched as Sherlock raised his arm, and for the first time in his life was ignored by the cab driver. As a second cab passed them by he decided to try something.

Turning away from his flatmate, John pictured the cemetery, and suddenly he was there, standing beside the same black marble headstone.

With a shiver he looked over his shoulder.

"Sherlock, I'm here."

Minutes later the younger man stepped up beside him.

"How?" He gestured at John and then at the cemetery in general.

"I…um…I just 'thought' myself here." John seemed equally perplexed. "How did you….?"

"You called me." Sherlock said flatly, looking at his friend as if he had just committed a heinous crime. "You called me, I heard your voice, then suddenly I find myself…." Words failed him.

John nodded.

"Okay." He gestured towards the headstone. "So what do you make of that?"

The gold lettering, so familiar to John for the two years that he had believed Sherlock to be dead, now had an additional inscription.

_**Sherlock Holmes**_

_**And**_

_**John Watson**_

_**Best friends in death**_

_**As they were in life**_

_**Always together**_

_**31**__**st**__** October 2013**_

"A year ago, according to that inscription." Sherlock observed needlessly, and then frowned as he heard a badly stifled chuckle. "What's funny about this, John?"

"Er, nothing, just….."John tried to keep a straight face. "That inscription, I was just thinking – I bet my sister hates that…" Losing the battle he leaned against the headstone and laughed until tears streamed down his face.

Sherlock stood watching him, a slightly confused look on his face, and waited until the breathless chortling subsided.

"You seem to have missed the point of all of this John, as ever you seem not to have observed the obvious – We. Are. Dead."

"Well I don't see that there's much we can do about that Sherlock, unless of course you know of some way to bring us both back from the dead?"

"Don't be facetious."

"I'm not Sherlock, I'm trying to be realistic – according to that inscription we are dead, we died a year ago today." He folded his arms across his chest and stood, feet slightly apart, staring down at the turf beneath his feet. "Now Mrs Hudson said something about a wall collapsing – didn't I tell you not to make that last jump?..."

"Are you blaming me?"

"No, idiot, don't you see? What's the last thing you really remember about that case? "

"You said don't jump, I jumped and you followed."

"Do you remember catching Fergusson?"

"No..." the word was dragged reluctantly from Sherlock's throat.

"Yet we both distinctly remember the look of surprise on his face – how do you think we did that?"

The silence stretched as the two men stood in the wind and rain, under cover of the growing darkness, staring at the gold painted inscription.

Finally Sherlock stepped back, shaking his head.

"It's just not logical." He snarled in frustration.

"Well explain this - it's raining and your coat is still dry. By now my jacket would be so wet my jumper would be saturated too, just standing here in the rain." Blue eyes met silver grey. "Believe me, I've done it before and it's bloody uncomfortable, so what's the logical answer?"

After a moment Sherlock smiled.

"We see what we can learn from my brother."

Together they turned and started to move away from the grave.

"I'm not sure I'd trust anything Mycroft might say though." John observed as they crossed the cemetery. "I mean, did you read that sentimental inscription?"

Any if any Halloween revellers heard two very distinct giggles as they passed by there was nothing to see – Sherlock and John where no longer there.


	3. Diogenes Club

Still marvelling at the speed at which they could get from one place to another, John tipped his head back and stared at the imposing edifice that was the Diogenes Club.

"D'you know," he mused, "ever since that first time I was kidnapped and brought here I've wanted to run through each room yelling at the top of my voice, just to piss them off."

"Well, now's your chance." Sherlock said as he moved up the marble front steps.

"What good would that do? They won't be able to see or hear me."

The two men passed through the door, gliding along the passageways to the Stranger's Room, where Mycroft could often be found. It was the only room in the club where talking was allowed. Hearing voices from inside Sherlock held up his hand and paused, his ear close to the door.

"He's got someone with him." He whispered. "Sounds like Lestrade."

"Why are you whispering? In fact, why are you standing out here spying?"

For a moment Sherlock looked confused, but then he watched as John slipped through the door and out of sight.

xXx

"I can hardly believe they've been gone a year." Greg Lestrade looked older and greyer as he sat in a wing chair opposite Mycroft.

The fire blazed between them, warming the room and casting a yellowish glow into the gloom.

Mycroft stared down into his whisky.

"I had another drunken e-mail from John's sister this morning, blaming me, my family, Scotland Yard and the rest of the world for her brother's death."

"Now hold on, that's unfair!" putting aside his glass Greg leaned forward. "Anyone who ever saw the pair of them together knew that neither needed encouragement – I mean, it was all either of us could do to keep them from charging off…." His voice trailed away and he reached once more for his glass.

"I'll kill my bloody sister!" John muttered half to himself

"I'm amazed she hasn't yet managed to do that all by herself." Sherlock replied, his eyes taking in everything around him as if he had never seen the room before.

John would have responded but Mycroft was speaking once more, and his words caught the attention of both men.

"How is your latest case coming along? Serial rapist I understand…"

"And the violence of each attack escalating – pretty soon he'll kill one of his victims." With a sigh Lestrade rubbed a hand over his face, then drained his glass. "What I wouldn't give to have those two lunatics back, if only….."

"Hmm. If only." Leaning forward to refresh Lestrade's glass Mycroft smiled, a rare, genuine smile. "And that brings us back to my brother who had no comprehension of the risks he took and John the adrenaline junkie. Them being what they were has left us with what we have now."

"The owner of the bloody building…"

"Had put warning signs up everywhere, except the one place where no one expected people to be – on the roof."

"He lacked insight." Sherlock commented, a small frown dinting his brow.

"What are you planning?" Unfortunately John knew that look only too well.

"I don't suppose that you…" Greg's voice interrupted and three pairs of eyes turned to stare at him.

Was he really about to ask Mycroft to help? It seemed he was, although later he would likely blame the whisky.

"I mean, you're like him, you can see the things most of us miss."

Mycroft's expression was carefully blank, not wishing to make his guest feel uncomfortable, but some of his distaste leaked into his voice.

"Visit crime scenes?"

"Oh no, I mean, not crime scenes, but maybe you can look over the photographs?"

With a sigh Mycroft shook his head.

"Even if I had the time I doubt I would be much use to you." He admitted reluctantly. "My brother spent years looking at such things, building up the knowledge that made him so good at what he did."

"John." Sherlock's voice was suddenly urgent. "We need to look at the evidence."

"What? Sherlock we can't…..well, we could, but what good would it do Greg? He can't see or hear us."

Grasping John's arm Sherlock turned, and they found themselves at Scotland Yard, in the incident room surrounded by whiteboards with information and tables covered with case notes and photographs.

Rubbing his hands together Sherlock grinned and looked around the room.

"Oh, it's Christmas!"


	4. Against the Clock

"No it's not, it's Halloween." John replied drily as he walked up to look at the notes scrawled in Sally's inelegant hand on the boards. Then a thought occurred to him.

"Sherlock."

"What?" he wasn't really listening, he had his magnifying glass out and he was scrutinising some photographs of the scene where the first victim was assaulted.

"Sherlock, it's Halloween." He turned from the board to look at his friend. "Sherlock, are you listening to me? It's Halloween."

"And your point is?" At last the curly head raised and silver grey eyes flickered across John's face, trying to read the reason for his sudden concern.

"My point is we're dead! It's All Hallows Eve."

"Superstition"

"And what if we are only here for tonight?"

That stopped Sherlock in his tracks.

"It hadn't occurred to either of us to wonder why now, why a year on from our…." John waved his hand in distaste and frustration. "Anyway, it's not as if it's simply that, the date Sherlock, think about it."

"And you think it's because this is the night that ghosts supposedly walk?" The sneer was evident in his voice

"Can you think of a better explanation for why now, tonight, we find ourselves back here?" Looking back at the whiteboard John shrugged. "It just struck me as strange that if we are here, why has it taken so long?"

"Look, let's for a moment then say that you're right, and we're only here for Halloween – we have just three hours to solve the crime with little or nothing to go on…I suggest we set to and worry about midnight when it happens."

xXx

"Say that again John." Sherlock's voice held that quality that always made his friend sit up and take notice, that tone that told them he'd found something significant.

"There was a broken key ring found under a chair in the bedroom where the third victim was found, it's got some kind of logo on it, looks like a car sales company." He was holding up an evidence bag.

In a flurry of activity Sherlock ploughed through photographs and statements, looking for the connection that he knew he had seen.

"Got it!" with a flourish he pulled a statement free from the pile on the desk, sending other papers fluttering to the floor.

"The first victim had looked at buying a new car from that car supermarket near the Bow flyover, but decided not to use that particular dealer because there was something about the place that made her feel uncomfortable."

"The salesman?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Even if he was the cause of her discomfort he has a rock solid alibi for all the attacks that would be hard to break – he had a heart attack on the afternoon of the first attack, been hospitalised ever since."

"Okay, fair enough." John wandered closer to the central table where Sherlock had been sifting through the various papers relating to the crimes. "We've linked victims one and three, how does that help us? Might just be coincidence."

"Oh I don't think so, look at this." Picking up a photograph he drew John's attention to a blood-spattered brochure on the floor of victim number four's flat. It was from the same car showroom.

"And victim number two had just agreed a part exchange on her old car." He picked up another statement. "But hadn't yet collected the new one. Each woman was probably seen by a different sales rep, these places have an overabundance of staff which is probably why Lestrade's team missed such obvious information."

"Okay, so that gives us the connection, how do we help Greg work out who the rapist is?"

Sherlock reached out to pick up a pen then realised with a start that, although the 'pen' was in his hand he could see it still sitting on the table. He took a step away from the table and saw that the papers he had sent flying to the floor were, in fact, neatly stacked in the order they had been left when the team had left for the night.

He looked at John and saw that the doctor had reached the same conclusion that he had – that they were unable to change anything physically.

"It would appear" he said slowly "That we will need to be inventive if we're going to be of any use."


	5. On the Stroke of Midnight

John glanced at the clock.

"It's nearly eleven – if we're going to be inventive we need to work it out soon."

"Shut up, I'm thinking." And true to his word Sherlock was sitting in a chair with his fingers steepled in front of his lips, rapidly sinking into his Mind Palace.

Shaking his head, John tried to come up with a solution, wandering around the room prodding at various computer terminals and wiping his hand over the white board, but each remained stubbornly unchanged.

He was on his third circuit of the room when Sherlock suddenly leapt to his feet.

"EVP!" he exclaimed.

"WTF?" John replied, startled. Sherlock frowned at him but before he could ask the doctor continued "Don't, just tell me what EVP is."

"Electronic Voice Phenomena. It's what they call it when people believe they can hear ghosts in the background of recordings – I've never really believed in that sort of thing but..." the younger man looked slightly confused. "It's hard to be skeptical when you find yourself in the unique position of actually being dead."

John's lips twitched as he fought to keep his smile under control.

"Anyway," Sherlock continued, "this room, like all the incident rooms here is wired for sound and vision, and the tapes run day and night to prevent tampering with evidence."

Looking up to the four corners of the room John spotted the cameras, all with built in microphones.

"So they may have heard everything we've said..."

"Possible. These are monitored from the security room on what is probably a ten minute loop." He looked down at the blond doctor standing beside him. "If we can move by 'thinking' ourselves in a place, I wonder if by thinking hard we can make ourselves heard."

"Or," said John thoughtfully, "if one of us thinks hard about the other being heard and also about getting the attention of the security officer?"

"Excellent! You concentrate on that, I'll put as much thought into being heard as I can while I explain what we know." He glanced at the clock. "If your theory about midnight is right we have fifty-five minutes."

John stepped up beside his friend and stared into the camera, concentrating all his efforts on amplifying the words Sherlock spoke, and directing them at the tape, and the security office on duty.

Sherlock for his part put as much concentration as he could into being heard by the recording equipment as he dared, without losing the thread of the information he needed to pass on to Lestrade.

xXx

**23.20pm Friday 31****st**** October 2014 **

Sergeant Windridge picked up his cup of coffee and took a sip. He hated night security here, it was boring and pointless – after all, who would want to break into Scotland Yard? – and what's more, he had had an annoying prickle down his spine for the past five minutes, as if someone was watching him.

Turning to the screens in front of him he gave each room a perfunctory glance, and was about to look away again when the first floor incident room flashed into view and the hair on the back of his neck stood on end.

The feeling of compulsion grew stronger as his eyes took in the two figures standing directly in front of the camera, apparently talking to it.

As if on autopilot he reached out and flicked a switch that stopped the view on this screen from moving on, and as dialled Inspector Lestrade's number he couldn't take his eyes from the scene in the other room.

xXx

Shrugging on their coats Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade strode purposefully through the silent halls of the Diogenes Club and out into the chilly night air.

"If Windridge is playing silly buggers I'll have him walking the beat before the week's out." Greg ground out from between gritted teeth. "Thanks for offering the use of your car."

"My pleasure, we'll get to the bottom of this mystery and then I'll take you home."

"Are you sure you want to come..."

"You heard the description of the 'intruders' – if they are masquerading as my late brother and his friend I wish to deal with them personally."

The smile never left Mycroft's face, but Greg felt the chill of his words as they sat, side by side in the back of the black car, speeding towards Victoria Street.

xXx

On arrival they bypassed the security room and hastened up to the first floor.

John's concentration broke as he heard the lift arrive, the doors gliding smoothly open.

Sherlock also heard it – he had finished explaining for the third time the evidence linking the car showroom to the rapes, and now with John was turning to face the door.

Greg and Mycroft stopped dead.

Whatever else had happened, Sherlock and John's concerted effort to be seen had paid off, and the two living souls could see – as clear as if they had never died – the two dead ones.

"D'you think they can see us?" John asked.

"I'm fairly certain of it, given the look on their faces." Sherlock smirked.

Greg and Mycroft looked at each other, then the detective held out a hand to touch John. It passed straight through.

"Don't waste time Lestrade." Sherlock raised his voice slightly, making the two men jump. "We may not have much longer."

"How...?"

"Boring."

"Stop it Sherlock." John's eyes flicked between the two men. "Look, we don't know why – didn't even know we were dead until tonight – but here we are, and Sherlock's found a link that might help you catch the rapist."

Mycroft opened his mouth to speak but John held up a hand and shook his head.

"No, listen. If you saw us on the tape you may be able to hear us. If not you could get a lip reader in – the point is, he's found the link. If I'm right we have..." he glanced at the clock. "...five minutes before we run out of time, so just listen."

Sherlock started speaking while Lestrade wrote notes. He had barely finished when, in the distance, they chimes of Big Ben struck the hour. Midnight.

With a last look at the two men John repeated, "Watch the tape."

And before the disbelieving eyes of Scotland Yard and the British Government, the detective and his blogger faded from view.

**A/N Apologies for the Oliver Chamberlain moment there...I couldn't resist.**  
><strong>Thanks to everyone who had read, reviewed, favourite or followed this...<strong>


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